


Love and War

by lasirene



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Dark, Drama, Eventual Romance, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Past Character Death, Post-Season/Series 03, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Slow Updates, Work In Progress, dark themes, eventual gore, will and hannibal go to argentina
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2018-09-23 09:45:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9650204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasirene/pseuds/lasirene
Summary: Their existence is a precarious dance of life and death. Hannibal never calls it love, though it gutters in his dark eyes like the flash of embers. Will never calls it war, though its bloody song rings along with the pounding of his heart like primeval drums. But it is love, and it is war. And all is fair in such a dance.





	1. Out of the Dark

            _Every part of him ached – barely, but he could feel it still.  Just beneath the surface.  His right cheek made the greatest protest as his mouth hung open, heaving in breaths.  He could ignore that, all of that.  He was transfixed by the gleam of ichor on his hand.  The limb it was attached to trembled, the hand wavered, and the gleam spread over the soaked silk glove he had donned.  “It really does look black in the moonlight.”  His voice, little more than a rasp, sounded foreign to himself.  But when he glanced up, to the man standing over him, there was no sign of surprise or lack of recognition.  He stretched out his hand, barely supporting himself on his own._

            _The hand wrapped around his, the other grabbed onto his arm.  Both men gasped and grunted, weakened from the battle they had won but still with just enough energy so that he was able to gain his feet.  He had to lean on his companion, but that was all right.  Even with the cloying copper stench of blood all around him, there was an awful wonder that filled him and sang through his blood._

_“See?”  His companion sounded rough as well, as breathless and gasping as he himself was.  But the gleam in those eyes was as lively and wild as a tiger’s after a fresh kill.  “This is all I ever wanted for you, Will.”  The gaze shifted, just enough away that he turned his head to glance a moment back at the Dragon, lying dead on his bloody wings.  “For both of us.”_

_He felt heavy with the weight of knowing, with the loss of blood.  His sight was turning towards a gray haze.  All conscious thought was abandoning him, save for one clear image._

_A smile, full of that awful wonder, broke on his face; his cheek cried out in a dim voice for him to stop, but he did not.  “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.  He sagged forward, leaning into the man before him, aware of them each clutching to the other and that this was the only moment he would ever have again to end it all._

_With the last of his ebbing strength, he raised his arm around his companion’s neck, held himself close to him.  There was no resistance as he began to shift his weight – a conscious act or merely the press of the gray fog, he could never say – and for a moment he heard the crash of waves in his ears.  And then there was only the wind, screaming in his ears as he fell to the darkness._

_He plunged into it, the concussion of breaking the black, roiling surface jarring his grip on the other man so they fell apart.  He sank into the black, eyes already closed in surrender.  A black hand wrapped its fingers around him and started to pull him down.  Consciousness faded, and the instinctive need to hold his breath began to fade away.  The salty anger of the dark stung sharp in his wounds, but even that was fading to a buzz of comfort.  Liquid silk wrapped around him, cradled him, and he gave in._

_And then claws grappled at the front of his shirt.  His mouth flew open, a silent scream of protest streaming from him in a rush of bubbles as he was yanked from the cradle of the dark.  He thrashed, clawed, fought to be free.  They were to die, they had to **die** , there was no other way!_

_His chest screamed out, a starburst of pain.  He opened his mouth, trying to gasp in air, only to choke on the black ink that should have killed him.  Knives broke through the silk, stabbing into him wherever they saw fit.  The dark thickened, wrapped talons around his throat.  Stars burst across his vision, a sea of silver against the black invading his eyes._

_It’s beautiful._

            It’s beautiful.  It’s black, silent except for his breath.

            His breath.

            Will’s eyes crack open.  They want to stay shut, crusted with sleep, but he opens them anyway and comes out of the dark.  Though the room is unlit, it is not the fathomless, bottomless black he had sought.  His heart, heavy in his chest, slams out a distraught rhythm.  He moves to open his mouth only to be met with a stab of pain on the whole right side of his face.  The pain is so sharp as to jar tears into his eyes.  Will shuts them tight, focusing for a moment on breathing through his nose.

            Breathing.  God damn breathing.  He should be dead.

            If he is alive, then that means someone must have saved him.  And he can hear the ocean beating at the bluffs.

            Will’s eyes open again, and this time he takes in the room.  Elegant, tasteful, expensive.  He knows the taste of the man who owns this house.  He’s seen most of the house, already, though not this specific room.  He supposes he would have, if things had gone differently.

            _All that effort to fail_ , he muses to himself, awestruck that such a direct plan could go so wrong.  If they did not drown, they surely should have bled out.  Yet here Will is; and if he is alive, he has no doubt that his companion survived the fall.

            _Can’t live with him.  Can’t live without him._

            Will opens his stinging eyes, sucking in a breath through his nose.  Already knowing the ache of his face, he moves downward.  Turns his head one way, then the other; stiff and sore, but mobile.  Further down his body, more aches and pains and scars to bear like medals of honor, but alive.  Dreadfully alive.

            Aching and finished, Will raises heavy eyes to the doorway.  He feels no surprise when he sees a figure looming in its shadow.  He wants to say something, something cruel and angry and hurt.  He moves to open his mouth again, and a burst of silver stars explodes over his eyes _as he is pulled from the drowning dark of the sea_ as he feels his attempt at cruelty die on his lips.

            The man entering the room is different from the man Will remembers.  Dark eyes have lost their sinister spark, dark shadows hang under them, unkempt hair in disarray and sallow complexion.  A man who is in evident pain of his own as he limps – barely, but Will sees it and notes it – across the room.  There is a spark coming back to those exhausted eyes, though, a spark of what is undeniably hope.

            Will turns his gaze down, staring at the haze of sheets covering him through wet eyes.  The man stops at his side, tall and proud and given a bit of joyous relief that his charge is awake after . . .

            A whistling sound escapes him as Will tries in vain to speak.  The sound hurts, and his head pounds with dizzying force.  The tears spill over in frustration, anger, agony.

            The man extends a hand without a word.  Will glances over from the corner of his eyes, shying from him as best he can.  Pills.  Painkillers, he hopes.  There’s a glass of water he notes, with a straw bobbing in it.  A flitting thought of being treated as a child crosses his mind, and is chased after by Molly’s son Walter, then the woman herself, and then the dogs.  Ghosts, now.  He knows he can never go back.

            “Are you going to be stubborn about this?”

            Will tilts his head a little, drawing back the left corner of his mouth in a grimace.  He peers from under his own mess of greasy curls that have fallen onto his brow, up into the eyes of the man who he is once more under the care of.

            How many times has it been this way?

            He wants the pills.  He wants to get rid of the pain.  He stares at them in a silent plea, begging his companion to understand.

            As always, he does.  The other man sits on the edge of the bed, breathing out a little sound of discomfort in the process.

            “Open your mouth.  The pain won’t be long, Will.”

            He screws his eyes shut, bracing himself for a second before opening his mouth.  Even doing it just a little lances him with pain, and he lets out a breathy scream as the pain brings more water to his eyes.

            The man places the pills on his dry tongue, and Will closes his mouth with dizzying relief.  He sags back, sweat on his clammy brow, feeling the pills heavy on his tongue.  He knows he can swallow them dry, but he wants the water.  He feels dry as a desert.

            The straw bumps his lips, and he parts his mouth again, grunting through the agony.  Sipping from the straw is not easy either, but he takes enough to swallow the pills and then takes some more.  When it is pulled from his mouth, the cup is over half emptied.

            Will sits in silence, staring ahead rather than at his companion, who shows no interest in leaving.  He offers no conversation, though, and so the silence deepens until their breathing is the same cadence.

            Time is meaningless, and perhaps Will dozes to pass some of it by.  When he realizes the pain has melted away, he finds his caretaker has not moved other than to put the water aside.  Will shifts into a more upright position with a little grimace and grunt.  He can feel the pulling in his right cheek, the stick of gauze taped down.

            “It’s going to scar.”  His own voice, hard and raw, startles himself.  He sounds broken, and he supposes he is.

            “You shouldn’t be talking.”

            “You shouldn’t have saved me, Dr. Lecter.”  _Can’t live with him, can’t live without him.  How right you were, Bedelia._

            “And leave you to drown?  I could not.”

            A flare of anger hammers at the center of Will’s forehead, right between his eyes.  “You’ve killed more people than I care to consider, Hannibal.  What’s one more man to that list of the rude?”

            Hannibal Lecter stands, and when Will turns his head to glare up at him, his vision doubles over.  The black wendigo is there, the monster lurking under Lecter’s skin and in his veins; black as pitch with bloody talons and bloody horns.  He blinks, the reflex of all humanity, and the vision is gone.  There is only Lecter, and something that may be sorrow in his eyes.

            “Perhaps I should, then,” Lecter replies, his voice now crisp and cold, like ice crunching between teeth.  “I risk my freedom more and more every moment we remain here.”

            “And I can’t stop you,” Will rasps in reply, leaning back against the pillows.  He is unarmed, weak from however long he had remained lying unconscious, and injured.  Lecter is more than capable of putting down the tired and troublesome creature that is lying before him.  Both men know this, yet nothing comes of it.  They both know that their lives are so entwined that death for one will be death for the other.

            “You should eat something,” Lecter says.  As far as a tactful change in conversation, it leaves much to be desired.  It has the desired effect, though.

            Will doesn’t want to smile in humor at the remark, but he can’t help the twitch at his mouth.  “Eat what?  I have to be doped up to even open my mouth, you might remember.”

            When he looks up towards Lecter, it is to see the trace of a smile at his lips.  “I do remember,” he says, holding out a hand.  “I have something in mind, though.”

            Will sits up, his pains no more than mutters as he lets Lecter help him to his feet.  He wants to make a joke about being nursed to health with chicken noodle soup.  But a joke implies camaraderie, and that is something that frightens him.


	2. The Second Path

            Lecter does make him soup.  It tastes and smells like chicken, though Will is very hesitant to call it that.  And it’s good.  As soon as he takes the first bite, he starts to eat like a heathen.  Lecter remains quiet and calm, as he almost always is.  Will plows through his food, and then sits in silence as the other man proceeds more slowly.

            Will knows he’s in trouble.  He can never go back.  He ran away.  At the best, everyone thinks he’s dead.  More likely, Jack Crawford at the least suspects the truth of the matter, that he is with Hannibal Lecter.  And if he suspects . . .

            “Why are we here?” Will croaks out.  “Shouldn’t we leave?”

            Lecter is silent for a moment as he finishes with his current mouthful of food.  When he finishes, he raises a curt look to the man across the table.  “You are not fit to travel, Will.  We have to wait.”

            “Jack–”

            “Never found this place before, and will not find it now.”

            Will falls silent, swirling his spoon through the puddle of broth in the bottom of his bowl.  Even if Lecter is certain of their ability to hide, Will is not as optimistic.  He can imagine the future if they are caught.  Both of them put away in an institution or prison, the key to their cells thrown away.  No more escape plans to lure a killer out.  The end of the line.  It chases a horrified chill down Will’s spine.

            “When can we leave?” he asked.  “Where would we go?”  He is desperate, needing an answer, needing to know.  He cannot stay here and not know.  It will drive him mad, if he is not mad already.

            “We will leave when you are recovered.”  Lecter raises a gaze that is almost admonishing.  “As to where, let me worry over that matter.  Your job is to recover.”

            “I’m not the only one injured, Dr. Lecter.”

            Lecter raises his chin, dark eyes regarding the man across from him with a look that is both wary and curious.  He remains still, as if considering the words, the inflection of his companion’s tone.  Trying to decipher if the words make a threat or a polite show of concern.

            Will hates that he cannot tell, either.

            “You are right,” Lecter finally replies, returning his attention to his food.  His tone is final, as if declaring that he is the only one who can do anything for either of them.

            And maybe he is.  Maybe he is twisting Will around his fingers.  Maybe Will is merely concerned for the man that was once so long ago his friend, the only person who ever came close to truly knowing and understanding him.

            Green eyes lurch down, a breath rattling into his lungs as he stares into the bottom of his bowl.  Silence creeps between them, a weighty anchor holding them to each other.

            But it is not uncomfortable.

***

            The light kiss of salt air against his skin and through his hair fills Will with a something he knows he has been missing for years.  He closes his eyes, breathing deep.  He feels the arm around him tighten in a brief squeeze that he would call a hug from anyone else.  From Lecter, it is nameless, and somehow its anonymity makes it more welcome.

            Will is not the one leaning into the touch.  Lecter is leaning, limping even.  His free hand is clamped against his side; Will can still remember the spray of blood, the shattering wine bottle, the maroon liquids mixing together as the bullet pierced skin and glass.  The flashing image of it runs again through his mind’s eye, and he finds his arm tightening around Lecter’s waist.

            He wants to hate him.  He wants their death dance to end.  Will is tired and aching, but he wants to be outside, and by God he’s going outside so he won’t lose his mind.  He thinks better outside.  It is cleaner than inside.

            He walks Lecter over to the patio chairs and supports him all the way down into the seat.  He hears the man’s relieved sigh, notes the sloppy posture and the thin film of sweat on his brow.  Will turns away, feeling almost wrong to note such weaknesses as these.

            He paces away – no limp in his step now that he has stretched his muscles again.  He does not sit, either, rather approaching the bluff and staring out at the sea.  He keeps a safe distance away from the precipice, but even so, he can feel Lecter staring at him intently.

            Will lets himself think.  His mind blooms like a bouquet of midnight flowers, bursting from the dark soil and unfurling leaves and petals in a riot of darkness.

            Lecter wants to rekindle the flame of their camaraderie; be it that which they had before the truth came forth, or that which Will crafted by Jack’s behest, or something else entirely, Will does not know.  He knows he does not want it, and he knows he is helpless to resist it.  There is a darkness in him that rises to the reflection it finds in Lecter.

            “Death would have been so much easier,” he whispers to the wind.  It gusts stronger, and he tips his head into its caress.

            He sees two paths before him.  One is of death, his death, here and now.  Another plunging fall; hoarding the pills Lecter will give him for the pain until there is a fatal dosage; cutting himself open and letting the blood out.  The other is foggy, unclear.  It frightens him, for it is down its path that he can see the black crown of antlers that haunted his once fevered dreams.  There is death down that path as well.  There is death everywhere, he knows, but not all deaths are his death.  This second path is not his death.  It is the death of many more things.

            Part of him just wants it to end.  But that would leave Lecter alone to ravage the world however he sees fit.

            _Can I do that?  Can I leave this world and let it be?  Let the beast loose on all the earth?  Am I that selfish?_

            His hands curl into fists.  He is not that selfish.  And besides

_Is Hannibal . . . in love with me?_

            could he leave?  Would it be allowed?  Or is he a hostage as much as a guest?

            He let the man – the monster – out of its cage.  To catch the Dragon.  Well, the Dragon is caught and ding dong, the Dragon really is dead this time.  And Lecter is free, just as Will is free.  Free of everything, of all ties.

            The sky is bleeding darker, the moon turning visible in the sky.  Will stares at it for a time, listening to the waves and the wind, the crash and sigh.  It is beautiful.

            He turns around, stepping further away from the bluff, further still until he is standing by Lecter again.  The meeting of their eyes is not hesitant, and Will hates that it is not unwelcome.

            He holds out his hand to the other man, and takes his first step down the second path.


	3. The Dragon's Heart

            The days fall into a pattern.  Will knows he will not remember many of them; they will become no more than a haze of pain medicine.  They already are.  The only day he remembers in full is that first day.

            He knows he will remember today because his head feels clearer than usual.  That means there is an edge of pain, but Lecter keeps the medicine hidden.  Perhaps out of fear that Will would swallow it all and bid his farewells in a locked room.

            Will considers it, of course.  He is not so far gone as to not contemplate the fact that death would be easier.  And yet there is something holding him here.

            _But do you ache for him?_

            Will looks down at the clothing laid out on the foot of the bed.  He had gone to the kitchen when he smelled cooking, and Lecter had told him to go to his room.  Will had tried to bargain; in a sense, it worked, since Hannibal had promised him his next dose of medicine.  Almost an hour early, too.

            And there it was.  A suit.

            He’s still staring at it and it’s surely been a few minutes by now.  His face throbs with the dull ache of the worst wound he thinks he has ever endured, and he just wants his damn medicine, but he is also scared to put the suit on.  It makes whatever meal they’re having formal, and that worries him.  He’s sure that Lecter harvested _something_ from the Dragon.  Even if they both killed him, it was a kill belonging to Lecter, and so he would take his trophy.

            The question was what that trophy would be.

            He brushes his fingers against the fabric, noting its elegance and fine cut.  Finally caves.  He paces back to the door, shutting it softly before he starts to undress.

            As soon as he starts to pull the clothes on, he knows they’ll be that perfect fit that is so hard to find.  A tremulous breath gusts out of him.  When had Lecter bought this suit?  Was he to have worn it on their first dinner together with Abigail, escaped from Jack and the FBI, safe with their own bloody family?  The idea seems . . . right.  Proper.

            He cinches the tie around his neck, buttons the jacket, and opens the closet.  For the first time, he consciously turns to the mirror that hangs on the inner door.  There are shadows under his eyes, though not too terrible.  Better than he expected, certainly.  The bandage on his cheek is unsightly, but it cannot be removed except for the wound to be treated and the bandage changed.  His hair is sloppy, and he’ll have to check in the bathroom for any product to tame it down.  Will knows that Lecter wants him to look the best he can be for such a special dinner.

            He takes a moment to admire the suit.  The close cut, fine fit, ashen blue-gray color.  The dark tie offsets the pale ensemble in a way that is both refined and flashy all at once.

            Lecter put thought into this outfit.  It gives Will a chill at the intimacy he wants so desperately to deny but cannot.

            He closes the closet, sighing out through his nose.  Tonight will be an elegant dinner, full of the usual artistry Lecter possesses.  Will cannot disappoint him.

            He pulls on a pair of dress shoes, raven black, and crosses to his door again.  Stepping out of the small place of privacy feels strange to him, and it is a relief to be able to close the bathroom door.  It does not lock, and Will is certain it is so Lecter may assure himself Will is not leaving him.

            He rummages about in the cabinets and drawers until finally finding a drawer that resembles one he had at home.  Hair mousse, his preferred form of tackling the mop of curls, but not his usual brand.  This is premium product, of course.  Lecter does have taste.

            Will refuses to acknowledge the smile teasing at his mouth as he begins the arduous process of managing his hair.

***

            When he sets foot into the hall again, Will feels like a new man.  The black cloud that had hung about him has thinned, no longer weighing on him with impossible weight.  His back is straight, his head high.  Hair parted on the side, beard trimmed to little more than a shadow.  He had had a brief thought when looking in a mirror.  Battered and cut up or not, he cleaned up nicely.

            Will steps into the kitchen.  It is a large space, open and airy and free to move about in.  Lecter looks at home in the space, familiar in a plain white shirt with sleeves rolled back and an apron to keep any stains off his clothes.  He does not turn when Will approaches, nor when Will stops and leans against a counter to watch the last of the cooking.

            “Do you like the suit?” Lecter asks as he sets the plates.

            Will remains quiet for a moment, watching the art played out before him.  For as many meals as he has shared with the man, he has spent very little time in a kitchen with him.

            “I do,” he finally says.  He speaks the words softly, though he is not sure why exactly.  He does like the suit.  He likes how it feels on him, how he feels in it.  But the fact that Hannibal Lecter chose it for him . . . laid it out for him tonight . . .  He does not know how to feel about that.

            “Your medicine is at the table, if you would like it,” Lecter announces, finally looking up from his work.  It is a brief look, but something about it . . . he cannot explain how it makes him feel.  As always, there is turmoil tearing through him.

            “Thank you,” he says, his voice even fainter now.  The door to the dining area is past Lecter, and the straightest route is to go around him.  So Will does, having to brush past him with the barest contact.  He thinks for a moment of the way they had clutched each other before Will dragged them down to the sea.  Then there is no contact, and the image leaves him like a brush of wind; there one moment, gone the next.

            He ducks into the dining room, going to the place at the table where the pills are laid out.  He places them on his tongue before lifting the glass of water set out.  He took a few drinks to wash the heavy pills down, and finally warded off the shadow of their taste with a sip of wine.  Now it would be merely a waiting game before the pain went away.

            He knows Lecter; he’ll want to make an entrance with the fine dish he has crafted for tonight.  Will pulls out his chair and eases himself into it with a low sigh.  He folds his hands together, keeping his eyes fixed on the entrance to the kitchen in anticipation.

            He is not disappointed.  It is not long before Lecter comes into the room, a plate poised on either hand.  What he sets before Will is, as always, a beautiful display of culinary talent.  A few strips of dark colored meat lie on his plate, drizzled over with a sauce that looks as dark red as blood.  Will only gives a cursory glance to the greens on the plate; he is far more attentive to the meat offered to him.

            Lecter sits down at the head of the table, as always, with Will in the place of honor beside him.  “Tonight is an important meal,” he announces, turning a dark and attentive look to his partner.  “There are those cultures in the world that believe feasting on the heart of your kill will give you the creature’s strength.”

            Will’s breath spills from him in a gust, eyes turning down to the plate again.  “The Dragon’s heart . . .”

            “Yes.  I do not know if the belief is truth, but it is a powerful image either way.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

            “Aggressive cannibalism.  It sends a message when the audience is alive and able to witness it.”  A strained sort of smile comes to him.  He’d read up on it, some, during his days hunting the man who is now his partner in crime.  Goose flesh peaks his skin and it is a conscious effort not to shudder.

            Lecter watches him a moment with a cool glance before raising his glass.  Like the strange sauce, the wine is a bloody red.  _This is my blood, shed for you_ and Will wants nothing more than to jump to his feet and flee this place while he still can, flee the darkness that is sleeping in his chest.  It isn’t too late.  He’s only taken one or two steps down this path.  He can go back to Molly, Walter, the dogs, tell Jack . . . tell Jack what?  He won’t believe him, he’ll never believe him again.

            Maybe it is too late.  Maybe this is a path he cannot turn about on.

            As if in a dream, he raises his glass and chimes it against his host’s.

            Lecter smiles, the very same smile that Will remembers from the psychiatrist’s first visit when he was in the Baltimore State Hospital and locked in a cage.

            “ _Bon app_ _é_ _tit_.”

***

            “It was good.”

            “You shouldn’t talk so much.  Not until everything is knit together again.”

            Will finds himself chuckling slightly.  “Usually people are trying to make me talk.”

            Lecter’s fingers peel at the tape holding the gauze to Will’s cheek.  He grimaces at the pull and tear, and gives a little sigh of relief through his nose when it stops.

            “I am glad you liked dinner,” Lecter finally says as he wipes a cool ointment over the stitched wound.  Will’s eyes fall half shut; it feels cool against, and the touch is gentle.  The man takes his time tracing over the stitches, checking their security and cleanliness.

            “I always like your cooking,” Will mutters into the silence.  “It’s good.  Better than I can do.”

            “Perhaps I can teach you someday.  Now hush.”

            Will forces himself not to smile at the chiding tone.  He falls quiet, letting Hannibal finish, and place a fresh dressing against the wound.  He smooths the tape down, making sure there are no folds in its surface.  Every gesture is gentle, mindful of the sensitivity of the healing flesh.

            He thinks it must be psychological, but he does feel stronger than he had earlier in the day.  The Dragon’s heart was a fine dinner, rich and complimented to near perfection by the wine.  A culinary masterpiece.  Hearty food, flowing fresh energy into Will’s weary veins.  He feels better than he has since they first came to this place.  He has drawn strength from his fallen enemy, but he tells himself it is not the strength of the Dragon that hums in his blood.  Their talk of ritualism has filled his head to the brim, and it is overflowing into his skin.

            Lecter draws his hand away with a last smoothing touch.  He gives Will a smile, one that seems both faint and nostalgic.  Will returns it as best he can.

            “You enjoyed dinner, then?”

            Will does not reply immediately.  Admitting to good food is one thing, but admitting to good company with this man is another entirely.

            “Yes,” he finally says.  “I did.”

            “You speak as if that is a wrong thing.”

            “Dr. Lecter–”

            The man rises, turning away before crossing the room.  Will moves to the edge of his seat, body gone tense.  Lecter moves with a swift efficiency that implies a painlessness that Will envies.  They remain apart, Will at his seat near the empty hearth, Lecter at the window and staring out into the fallen night.

            “If you did not wish to be in my company, why let me out?”  Lecter’s voice is clipped and cold as ice.

            “Hannibal–”

            “If you wish to go, go.”  Lecter turns back to him, his expression as empty as his voice.  “You can leave, go back to Jack and your safe life.  But you have to let me go, and we can never see or speak to each other again.”

            Will stands, moving slow across the floor.  Hannibal never looks aside, dark eyes intent on every movement he makes.  Will stops, so close that only a twitch of his hand could let him touch the other man.  The air seems to crackle and spark between them, afire with unspoken thoughts and feelings.

            Lecter’s hand, strong and cool and light, curls around the back of Will’s neck.  A shiver crawls down his spine; there’s something familiar to the touch, and for a moment he can smell blood and hay.

            “There is only you and I, Will.  Today, tomorrow; they can all be ours.  This is all I ever wanted for you.”

            Will raises his gaze to match the dark eyes that are watching him with such intensity.  His lips part for a moment, a hundred different replies poising at his tongue.  “For you,” he whispers.  “For both of us.”

            Hannibal smiles, a slight expression, but warm.  Sincere.  “Goodnight, Will.”  His hand slips away, musing curls as it goes.  He brushes past Will, whose body turns just slightly with his, as if to keep the contact as long as he can.  Will can sense him leaving, retreating for the night.

            He feels a realization coming to him.  This is no mere game of survival.  This is a war, inside himself, between themselves.  It sparks a flame of horror in him, to find such a thing trying to grow up inside him, like an unwelcome and twisted rose.

            He grits his teeth, eyes clenching shut.  He claws at it, at the stinted thing, trying to tear it out even though its thorns will rip his palms open.  Tears sting at his eyes as he leans forward, bracing a fist against the cold glass.

            It is no longer the Dragon’s fiery strength that runs through him.  It is the drums of a war he fears he has no chance of winning.


	4. A New Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of Hannibal's fourth anniversary, I'm finally posting the fourth chapter!

            “ _Estamos aterri_ . . .  Aterri-what?”

            The abrupt sound that escapes Hannibal can only be a laugh, as strange an idea as it is.  Will feels a grin quirk at his mouth, and he finally peels his eyes from the window of the plane to look at his companion.  The dark eyes are still bright with mirth, a few strands of sable hair coming loose of their order to hang low against his forehead. 

            “ _Aterrizando_ ,” Lecter supplies.  “ _Estamos aterrizando pronto_.”

            “ _Aterrizando_ ,” Will echoes, doing his best to wrap his mouth around the foreign word.  He had studied Spanish in high school, but that was quite a time ago now.  He isn’t sure if he is saying it right – is quite doubtful in fact – but Lecter nods his encouragement.

            Will smiles a little.  He starts to wonder if Argentina was the best idea given his lack of understanding the language.  “It’s a good thing you’re fluent.  I’d be lost if I were alone.”

            Lecter’s hand rests on his forearm, gripping in a firm but gentle hold.  “You aren’t alone.”

            Will doesn’t need him to voice the implication.  Will knows he will never be alone again.

            He looks away and upward as the captain speaks and announces that they will begin the landing process; all passengers must buckle in.  Will complies, tipping his head back and shutting his eyes as the plane begins its full descent.  He does not want to look at his companion for fear of what he will see there.

***

            It is with a sense of a knot in his stomach that Will lets the machine scan his passport and himself.  Lecter moves with efficient and unhesitant grace, confident and comfortable, as if nothing is wrong.  Will fears, much as he feared during their layover, that someone will come to grab them.  He fears it not for the promise of incarceration, for he knows that Lecter will not go back behind bars.  He fears the fact that Lecter will fight like a cornered lion; he fears that he will join him not out of force, but of desire.

            And yet they steadily crawl through the airport until finally stepping out into the sun with their baggage – a couple suitcases between them and little else; Will left most of his things over five thousand miles away, and Lecter has had very few of his clothes in a long time.  They are here not to continue a life, but to start a new one.

            Will reaches his free hand up, rubbing the pad of his thumb against the ridge of scar tissue on his cheek.  It still looks red, but the wound has closed.  As soon as it had, Lecter had thrown their things into their bags and they had left.  No goodbyes, no ceremony.  Days before, Will had overheard him on the phone speaking in rapid fire Spanish as if it were natural to him.  He does not know anything that Lecter has put together, except that they have come to Mendoza; an inland city in the heart of wine country, large enough to provide them all their needs and enough culture to appease Lecter and to hide in, but not so large as to be obnoxious.

            The city is not so different from large ones in America, really.  And yet it feels so new, the heat of the air and the kiss of the sun.  He feels a bit of a brightening, a lightening of his mood.  He is compliant when Lecter leads him into a building, and stops where Lecter tells him to stop.

            When they go outside – now accompanied by a man in a suit who is animatedly speaking with Lecter – Will is surprised that they are moving straight towards a sleek black car.  How Lecter has worked this magic he knows not, and cares not.  The man has his ways, and Will can let these things go.  From what he gathers from the suited man, the car is theirs to have.  And if they have a car, Will can only wonder as to what else Lecter has up his sleeve.

            They throw their baggage in the trunk, Lecter offering his gratitude a final time before they each climb into the car.  It’s a nice car, of course.  Will expects only the finest from his companion.  Lecter seems pleased by his choice, running his palms against the steering wheel and smoothing light touches across the various controls in a brief familiarization.  The he turns the key, the engine purrs to life, and he pulls the car out of the lot and onto the road.

            They drive slowly through the city, Lecter intent on the road, Will drinking in the new environment.  Eventually the buildings begin to thin, and thin some more, until they are out of the city and into suburbs.  And still they drive some more, the houses thinning and developing spacious yards.  Will finally turns to look at Hannibal, debating on whether or not to inquire as to their destination.

            He decides not to.  He has no choice but to go where the man takes him, after all.

            And so they drive, the low hum of the engine and sigh of wind the only noise.  Will watches the landscape fold past them, curiosity and admiration in his eyes.  It is a beautiful place, with mountains in the horizon, green all about them.

            The car slows, the whispering tick of a blinker in Will’s ears.  The car turns easily into a drive, and Will stares at the house they are facing with a sense of shock and wonder.

            Lecter leans towards him, not much, but enough that he notices the movement.

            “Welcome home, Will.”

***

            There is a man at the house, obviously the man who sold it to Lecter.  The two great each other in Spanish, friendly gestures all around.  Will hangs off to the side, still too swept up in being in a new country and the wonders that Lecter can work.  As the two men talk animatedly, Will turns his attention to the house.

            Built of gray stone, it is an elegant home on the exterior, and the drawn back curtains of the large living room window allow a glimpse of an equally fine interior.  He can see a large yard behind the house, lush with grass, and he can smell flowers.

            “William.”

            He hums, turning his head quickly to Lecter.  Lecter beckons to him, to join them on the porch to go through the house.  He feels as if he is wrapped in a dream as he joins Lecter and steps into his new home.

***

            The tour is a blur of clumsy English and Lecter explaining the finer points to Will.  The house is beautiful, fitting for the Lithuanian, complete with a large and airy kitchen, elegant dining room, and fine furniture.  Will finds it to be extravagant, particularly in comparison to his hovel in Wolf Trap, and he cannot quite stop himself from thinking how much more welcoming the space would be with a couple of dogs to patter about.  Once the real estate agent finally leaves, the two men bring in their bags and set to picking which room will be whose, and finally to unpacking.

            It does not take long for Will to finish.  He flops onto his bed with a groan to himself, eyes already falling shut as he relaxes into the soft mattress.  After the cramped plane ride and then the drive, it is a relief to be able to stretch himself out as he sees fit.

            The ride was long, too, and exhausting in the way that all plane rides are.  Will finds his eyes closing, and he cannot fight against it.  He drifts, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, lucid thoughts and ideas playing out before him.  He sees blood spraying in the deep of night, tastes salt on his tongue, feels warm breath on his skin; he feels rain stinging his skin, hears himself whisper _“You were supposed to leave”_ , feels the drag of a sharp edge cutting a smile in his stomach; he feels his brains on fire and a gun in his hands, the black shape of the wendigo wavering before him.

            _“If I saw you every day . . . forever, Will . . . **I would remember this one**.”_

            His eyes open at this point, his body aware of eyes on him.  He turns his head, just enough to look to the doorway.  Lecter is there, leaning in the doorway.  Something about the look on his face makes a shiver sprint across Will’s spine.

            “Would you like dinner, Will?”

            He gives a groan as he sits up, turning at the waist so his spine crackles and pops into a more comfortable place. He sighs as he stands and rubs at his stiff neck.  “Didn’t like the food on the plane?”

            A look of disdain comes to Hannibal’s refined features, his head lifting.  Will laughs at the reaction as his companion turns away.

            “If you could call that mess _food_ ,” Lecter replies stiffly.  “I saw you all but relishing it.  I really must train your palate, Will.”

            Will laughs again, trailing after him.  “And are you going to train me to dress like you as well?  Enjoy your hobbies?”

            Lecter glances back, russet eyes gleaming with humor.  “Perhaps.  Only time shall tell.”

            Will does not reply as Lecter, with a sigh of what seems to be passionate regret, leads him outside to the car once more.

            _You and I have begun to blur . . ._

***

            “So where are we, really?  Besides near Mendoza, Argentina.”

            Lecter does not reply immediately, instead toying at the stem of his wind glass.  Their empty plates are pushed aside.  The dinner, while not as good as Lecter’s cooking, was still good, and the wine is certainly excellent.  Will is even more hopeful for the dessert, a chocolate cake whose picture had raised high hopes in his mind for how it would taste.  Finally, the man speaks up:  “This is Chacras de Coria.  It is a bit of a tourist area, but the culture of the town, given its size, is exceptional.  There are bountiful wineries.”

            “Ah.  So that’s why you chose here.”

            Lecter smiles at the teasing tone in Will’s voice.  “It is small enough to be comfortable, and large enough to hide in.  We will do well here, I believe.  It will be a new home.”

            Will makes a slight face.  “It won’t be a home until I have a dog.”

            Lecter chuckles, glancing at the man across from him.  “I think that should wait until we are certain we have made our escape entirely.”

            “You don’t strike me as the pet type, Dr. Lecter.”

            “You would be correct.  But you are.  And what is living with someone other than being willing to compromise?”

            Will nods slowly.  He is somewhat surprised by how much the offer to have a pet touches him.

            “It has to be adopted.  A stray, or from a shelter.  No puppy mill, no breeder.”

            “Of course.  As long as it is trained to go outside.”

            “Of course.”

            Their dessert comes then, a large slice of cake and two forks.  The waiter says something in Spanish to Lecter, who replies in turn with a polite smile.  Once they are left alone, Lecter takes up his fork and, with his usual grace and reverence, takes a small portion of the cake.

            Will mirrors the gesture, though opting for a larger piece.  Lecter may be wearing off on him, bit by bit, but so far his table etiquette is yet to be so elegant and refined.

            The two men both move their forks in a slight toast, to their escape, to their new home, and to the delicate companionship that neither can deny but both do not acknowledge.

            Will takes the bite of cake into his mouth.  His eyes close in delight, the chocolate and wine mixing on his tongue.  It is a small piece of perfection in a world of chaos.

            But he fails to see the way that Lecter gazes upon him, and if he had known of that look, he would have been grateful to miss it.


	5. The Fears of Those Who Are Prey

            She wakes in the dark of the small hours, a sudden rousing that leaves her disoriented.  She sits up, brow furrowed, hair mused, skin sticky with a thin coat of sweat.  _My boy_ , she thinks in the mangled dark, _I have to check on my boy_.  It is a thought with no logic to it; he is young, yes, but by no means a baby.  He’s three years old, going on four, well beyond being potty trained.  But she gets up anyway, grabbing a robe as she exits their bedroom.  The weather is fine, mild, but she is cold, so cold.

            The house is as large as the former estate, the one she never intends to go back to.  All the horses have been brought along, all the money is hers.  She is the head Verger.  Margot is the queen, and their son will be the future king.  She and Alana have to look after him.

            That’s the reason they fled to a vacation home and made it their forever home.  The massive Verger estate is still theirs, but Margot thinks they’ll never go back.  Too public.  Too known.  They need to vanish forever so he can’t find them, and this property is practically a family secret.  Tucked away in central California, it’s still a lavish and large place, but not as grand as the other.  She doesn’t care.  She has everything she wants here.

            And as far as she knows, Hannibal doesn’t know this place exists.

            She remembers the moment perfectly, when Alana came home all pale and drawn.  Margot had never seen someone so afraid still remain in control of themselves.

            _Pack everything.  Get Jason.  We need to leave._

_Alana?  What’s wrong?_

_It’s Hannibal.  The van he was being transported in . . . had some sort of freak accident.  He’s vanished.  So has Will . . ._

_You think he’s going to come after us._

_Not immediately.  But eventually.  I don’t want to be here when he decides to drop in for dinner, do you?_

            Margot shudders as she pushes the door of Jason’s room open slowly.  The golden glow of his nightlight is just enough to put gross shadows on display.  Another chill sparkles across her spine as she steals her way into the room, quiet as a thief in the night.  She crosses to his bed, looking down on her son.

            He lies there, curled up on his side, his thumb dangling near his open mouth.  His hair is spread on the pillowcase.  His skin is soft, his face innocent.  His body rises and falls with the slow cadence of his sleeping breaths.

            Margot feels the tension around her heart ease, if only a little.

            Jason Verger is alive, and safe.

            But for how long?

***

            Nine hours difference stands between the two women, and yet their thoughts and new lives are shockingly similar.

            Bedelia du Maurier sits in the open air at a small café in her home country.  Though not in Paris – far from it, in fact – the elegance of the country is still obvious in the atmosphere, the furniture, the live accordion music dancing in the air.  She is on her lunch break, her small psychiatry office closed for the two hours.

            She has not eaten much.  Not since news of the FBIs fumble in using Hannibal as bait for the Tooth Fairy killer reached her.  Her worst fears had come to sudden truth.

            _I’d pack my bags if I were you, Bedelia.  Meat’s back on the menu._

_You righteous, reckless, **twitchy** little man!  Might as well cut all our throats and be done with it!_

_Ready or not . . . **here he comes**._

A shudder in the sweet noon air.  Bedelia picks up her cup of coffee, porcelain clattering on porcelain as her hands tremble at the memory.  Will’s words had given her a premature warning that Hannibal would likely walk freely once more.  The two of them together, wherever it was they had gone, was not a thought Bedelia likes to entertain.

            But she knew, for her own sake, her own self-preservation, that she should.  If she lets her guard slip, then one – or worse, _both_ – of them will finally come for her.

            It has been a few weeks since she bought her ticket to France and took off.  While by no means a discreet place to hide, it was better than sitting and waiting for the inevitable.  And, if she kept quiet, there was a chance that she could be overlooked.  She had chosen to live in the city of Rennes in the north.  It was cultured, beautiful, and in the crowded space, she felt relatively safe.  As safe as she could be, at least, being on Hannibal’s list.

            But she had time.  He would have to sink under the radar, and that was not a thing to be done overnight.  For now, she could enjoy a temporary span of peace.  No more talks about Hannibal.  Just psychiatry, just enough to get her by.  A quiet life in a loud city, a hope and prayer that perhaps she was not the meat that was on the menu.

***

            He knows he has made a mistake.  Will had sounded so sure, but perhaps that was the guise all along.  Perhaps this had been some twisted plan they had concocted.  Will had never been the same since the encephalitis, since he baited Lecter.

            That was his fault, too.  In these black moments of night, when the gray of dawn was soon to crawl over the horizon, Jack Crawford had a lot of time to reflect on these things, to think on them and realize them.  In a bed that was too big and too empty, he had all the time in the world.

            Alerts had been sent out across the whole country, stretching to other countries even, announcing that Lecter was loose again.  The press coverage had been insane, with Freddie Lounds leading the charge as usual.  She had been particularly ruthless, and TatleCrime.com had been littered with countless articles about the disaster, Lecter’s freedom, the ‘murder husbands’ at large together.

            Crawford was horrified to say it lightly.  The whole affair was a disaster, and the blame could all be pointed to him.

            He hasn’t lost his job.  Not yet.  There’s other things to deal with, and there’s a chance that the Tooth Fairy, the Dragon, whatever he wanted to be called, had done his dirty work.  There had been no moon-cycled murders, and no bodies mutilated into twisted and bloody art.  Maybe they were both dead.  Will had not resurfaced; maybe he was dead, too.  It might be good for him, even.

            Molly had called Crawford at the office once.  She’d torn his ear off in her sharp, grieving voice brimming with tears.  Jack had let her, and when she had hung up, he had put his phone down and put his head in his hands.

            He knew he’d have to keep on the lookout.  It was too dangerous to assume any of them were dead.  His team was looking into all of Lecter’s records, into everything he owned, trying to find some secret place.  The man covered his tracks well.  Nothing had been found yet, but Jack thought they were close to something.

            He had to hope they were.  If the Ripper was out there, he had every intention of catching him again.  And if Will was there?

            Well, he would be caught, too.

***

            Will jerks awake, eyes wide and breathing harsh.  A soft voice murmurs, senseless in the chaos of his mind.  For a moment, he feels as if he is still drowning from the black waters of his nightmare.  Then there are fingers working through his hair, pushing it back from his brow, a cool palm against his brow.  His eyes flutter halfway closed as he leans into the touch without thought.

            “Will?”

            He hums, opening his eyes.  Even in the dark, he can recognize Lecter’s profile.

            “What time is it?” he rasps.  He slips free of the touch, shifting so he can prop himself up on his elbows.

            “Not quite five in the morning,” Lecter replies.  He does not sound tired, or impatient.  If anything, Will guesses he is . . . concerned.  It is a look he has not seen often on the man.  Usually when it has been directed to him, Will has been too delirious or in too much pain to note it.  He almost hopes he is misreading that look.

            Will lets his eyes skitter away from Lecter’s finally, turning his head to look anywhere else.  “I’m sorry.  For waking you.”

            “No need for that.”  Lecter sits up straighter, one hand still braced on the mattress.  Will can feel how close it is to his own hand, but he makes no gesture to reach out to it.

            “What did you dream of?”

            Will is silent for a moment.  Does he speak the truth?  Does he swallow it and lie?  Does he remain silent?

            “I dreamed about Abigail,” he finally whispers.  His tongue feels heavy, dry, unwieldy.  He shudders at the raw, already fading memory of the nightmare.

            Lecter’s hand slips a bit closer.  Will’s fingers twitch toward his palm ever so slightly, but not enough to make any real difference in distance between them.  “What of her?” Lecter whispers.  There is emotion there, in his voice.  Will knows they both cared for the girl, but he had never truly considered what effect slitting her throat may have had on the man.

            Will raises his eyes back to Lecter’s face.  It is dark, thrown in shadows.  His eyes glint only a bit in the faint throws of light that penetrate through the curtains.

            “Her death . . . was my fault.  At least, that’s what she said.”  The last sentence is thrown on desperately, as if to imply that Will has never considered that notion himself.

            “She was . . . bloody.  Very bloody.  Her throat . . . hung open, like a smile on her neck.  She looked happy, at first, and then she just . . . grew angry.  And the stag.  He was there.  He had his antlers pointed at me.  I think he was blaming me, too.”

            “Will.”

            He glances up again, his face forced blank.  Lecter leans in close, eyes flashing in the dark.

            “Abigail’s death is not your fault,” he says, words firm, stern.  Sure.  “I am the one who killed her.  I wanted to hurt you, as you had hurt me.  She was the closest way.”  A pause, heavy and tense.  And then, words Will thought he would never hear.

            “I am sorry, Will.”

            His mouth opens, but no words come forth.  Will dares to meet those eyes in the darkness.

            “I loved Abigail as well,” Lecter continues.  Will feels his fingers touched by his, but he does not draw back.  “I did not love her in the same way, but . . . she reminded me of Mischa.”

            “And so you loved her.”

            “Yes.  I did, in my own way.”

            “Do you miss her?”

            “I believe you are asking me this because you miss her.”

            Will smiles, though it is no happy expression.  “I’m sorry for waking you, Hannibal.  I think I’m all right now, though.”

            Lecter leans back slowly, retreating his hand last of all.  He stands, straightening out the light shirt he had pulled on to sleep in.  “Goodnight, Will.  I shall see after the sun is risen.”

            Will watches him leave.  Only once the door is pulled shut does he lay back down.  He drapes an arm over his eyes, closing them on the darkness.  Memories of Abigail always throw him off kilter.  She had been like a daughter to him, even after he had been framed as her killer.  It had hurt him more than anything, and had hurt even more when Hannibal had slit her throat as Will lay on his kitchen floor, holding onto life by a mere thread.  He had tried to stop the bleeding, but he had failed.

            Lecter killed her because of Will.  Because he had chosen Jack, the FBI, over him.

            How is it not his fault?

            Will rolls over with a groan, pressing his face into his pillows.  He loves her still, even though she is years dead now.  There had been a time when he had seen her with him, a ghost of his past.  He thought she had faded away, had gone to rest, to the peace she deserved.

            Was she back to haunt him?  Is he prey to his own mind?

            As he drifts back into a light slumber, Will finds he already knows the answer.


	6. Guard

            Water beats at skin, at porcelain.  It streams down his face, back into his hair.  The air is heavy with collected steam and heat that presses on his skin.  Relaxing; his guard is slipping down.

            Not only from the comfort of the lengthy shower he’s indulging in.  No, his guard is slipping on all fronts.

            Will opens his eyes slightly, squinting against the force of the spray.  He didn’t want to be comfortable around Lecter, but he couldn’t deny the truth of the matter: he was getting comfortable.  They were falling, albeit slowly, into their long abandoned roles that had formed during the earliest days of their acquaintance.

            Perhaps Will was misguided, delusional even, but he dared to believe that Lecter was truly interested in making sure Will was happy.  Or, as happy as he could be, that is.  It was not easy for him to be happy, after all.

            But to dare and think that Lecter cared for him at all is a dangerous thing.  It could be a trap, a way to lure Will into a sense of calm before springing on him.  But that idea did not sit with Will.  It felt wrong.  More importantly, it felt rude, and if there was anything Hannibal hated most in all the world, it was rudeness.

            Will cannot say what the man is planning with their secretive flight.  But, for the time being, Will is to be his companion.  Whether he is as dispensable as Abigail . . .

            He sucks in a shuddering breath, hands clawing at the slick walls of the shower until he finds the handles and shuts them off.  The bathroom is suddenly silent, filled only with his panting breaths and the drip of water.  He leans for a moment against the wall before him, feeling each drop of water from the showerhead dripping onto the back of his neck and rolling down his spine.

            Abigail.  Abigail Abigail Abigail haunts him in the night and Abigail haunts him in the day and he thinks and fears he will never get over the guilt in his chest and wishes he could bring her back in his mind without the blood on her face and her neck but he can’t he just _can’t_

            A light sound of rapping knuckles on the door snaps Will back.  He scrambles out of the shower, nearly slipping but catching himself before he can fall.  He grabs his towel and wraps it snug around his hips for the moment.

            “Will?”  Through the door, Lecter’s voice is muffled, but Will can still hear the concern edging the sound of his name.

            He cracks the door open just an inch, enough for him to look out and prove he’s alive.  “I’m fine,” he replies.  His voice is low, rasping, but steady enough.  Lecter’s furrowed brow does not smooth over, though.  Will does not let it deter him.  “I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

            Lecter blinks once before nodding.  He steps away, the slight sound of his shoes on the hard floor the only other sound.  Will pushes the door shut again, trying to ignore the peaks and bumps of gooseflesh trying to rise on his arms.

            He towels himself dry with a fierceness that chafes against his skin, and dresses with equal haste.  Fine clothes; slacks and a button down and a shiny watch, like something he would have worn back when he was teaching at the academy.  He takes off the finesse with a quick rolling of his sleeves; he doesn’t doubt Hannibal will curl a lip at it, but he feels far too stiff.

            He tackles his hair with a blow dryer to get rid of the worst of the damp, and then smooths it into places; raked off his brow and swept to one side.  The thin, straight scar on his forehead is visible this way.  Where Lecter tried to cut his head open.

            His hand presses against his gut, eyes turning down to look at the reflected image of him tracing the scar on his stomach.  A smile.  Another gift from Lecter.

            The puckered skin of a gunshot wound on his arm.  A gouge in his cheek, still a bit pink.  Scars, everywhere there are scars.  So many of them are from Hannibal, some direct, some indirect.  How many times has this man led him so close to death’s door?

            Will raises his eyes, meeting his own gaze for a moment – and looking away almost immediately.  He hates eye contact, his own most of all.  He is afraid to read his own eyes and peer into his own soul.

            When he is finished, he steps outside into the hall, and wanders his way to the living room.  Lecter stands there, surveying the room with great care.  One hand is in the front pocket of his slacks.  He is dressed similarly to Will, but with an added sport coat.  There is elegance about him, grace and poise.  Will has these things, can mirror them, but there is a raw quality about him.  Lecter has polished his appearance like a shining gemstone; Will is merely cut into a shape, unbuffed.

            Lecter turns his attention to Will.  Not to the man’s surprise, he is given a look that, while polite, still conveys a measure of disappointment.  He chokes back the urge to smile in good humor.

            “It is time to go,” Lecter announces before turning away from Will abruptly.  He pulls his hand free, keys jangling softly.

            Will trails after him, not admitting his intrigue.  “Where are we going?”

            “I need utensils.  For the kitchen,” Lecter adds, looking at Will over his shoulder with a pointed look.  “And groceries.”

            Will pauses, thumbs hooking in his pockets.  Lecter stops, hand on the doorknob as he turns to face his companion.

            Will’s lips part slowly, tongue dragging across the skin.  He stares at Lecter’s hand on the door, avoiding the look on his face.  He does not want to see his reaction.

            “You don’t need me to go with you.  I’ll be in your way.”

            A heavy silence hangs between them.  Will doesn’t need Lecter to reply, to explain why he wants Will to join him.  Will can guess quite a few reasons.  He doesn’t trust Will to not call the authorities.  He doesn’t trust Will to be alive when he comes back.  He doesn’t want to risk going out alone and being caught without a hand to aid him.

            What Lecter says does not confirm or deny his suspicions.

            “I want you to come, Will.  I want your company.”

            He hesitates for a moment, weight swaying from heel to toe to heel.  He glances throughout the room, eyes darting about.  Steps forward once, pauses, and then walks.  Glances at Lecter for only a second to see his smile as he turns towards the door and opens it to the day.

***

            Will offers to carry the grocery basket, seeing it as just about the only way he can be of any use to Lecter in this situation.  He understands little of the signs that Lecter reads over, and he understands even less of the words he hears from the people that they pass by.  He follows Lecter, only ever a step behind him.  The store is just too crowded for them to walk side by side.

            Their steps are measured and matched perfectly, and somehow Will knows just when to stop without Lecter needing to say anything.  It is the same silent connection they have always seemed to share.  Even in their days of animosity, it had remained, as if to mock them with the knowledge that once they had been this close, this comfortable, this friendly.

            Lecter gathers his produce in a methodic manner.  He wanders through fruits and vegetables, picking each item he desires up to examine it with a critical eye.  Those that pass inspection, he passes to Will.  Will puts it in the basket without remark or examination.

            “Perhaps sometime you can teach me these things,” Will says as they stand at a selection of peppers.

            “I told you I could teach you to cook.  Picking out your ingredients and knowing all the kitchen utensils are part of that process.”  Hannibal places one of the peppers into the basket himself, taking advantage of their current side by side position.  His fingers skim across Will’s knuckles as he draws back.  Will tenses, taking a deep breath.  He cannot decide whether to chase after his touch or jerk from it.

            Lecter moves on, and Will follows.  And he fears he cannot guard against what he fears is the inevitable.


	7. Drowned to Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very quickly before you jump into the chapter:
> 
> \- I am incredibly sorry that I haven't updated in so long. Once I got back into school, I had a lot less time to write, and the stress from my classes wrecked my creativity and motivation to write. If this chapter seems clumsy, it's probably because I'm trying to get back in the rhythm and mindset of the story and characters.
> 
> \- A huge thank you to everyone who has read this story and is still here. I love and appreciate you all!
> 
> \- Another huge thank you to the people who left such sweet and encouraging comments since I last updated. These comments helped me get some motivation back to work on this fic!
> 
> \- I can't promise that I'll be regularly updating this fic, but I have every intention of seeing it through, however long it takes.
> 
> Thank you all for reading!

            A week in, and their house is fully furnished to Lecter’s liking.  The television is on, turned to a news station.  Lecter has been teaching Will Spanish, and while he’s making incredible progress, he still struggles with keeping up with native speakers, or even Lecter when he really gets going.  As such, Will doesn’t tune in to the news rolling by.  He sits on his end of the couch with a laptop, searching for any fresh news that may have risen about the two of them.  He’s barely started, finished with a day of arranging furniture and decorations to his housemate’s liking.  His tee shirt sticks against a tacky film of sweat on his skin, and the cold water bottle feels good in his hand and against his lips when he takes a long drink.

            He sits on the far right of the couch, and Lecter on the left.  He glances briefly towards his companion, unsurprised by his stillness.  Lecter has one leg bent over the other, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixated on the screen.  His hair has grown back to its former length, from before incarceration, and Will notices absently that there are a few silvery traces in the dark mass.

            Will looks back to his glowing screen.  Lecter is attentive to the news as well.  They had agreed without really speaking of it to look.  Their companionship was rebuilding itself from the crumbled foundations, and it was building faster than Will would admit.

            Will types quietly in the search bar, tongue swiping absently at his lip to pick up stray water.  Another drink as the results load.  A pause at the TattleCrime.com headline that pops up in the first few.  Heart slamming at his ribs, Will clicks wildly at the article.

            “Murder Husbands Fall to Death, or Wild Escape?”

            The volume on the television goes up, but Will can only clearly hear the crash of waves in his ears.  He skims through Lounds’ article wildly, finding quick bursts of words as he stares at the pictures.  Dolarhyde in his blood, rotted away; the Dragon is dead.  Blood, so much blood, and it belongs to all three of them, and there’s so much, how could anyone survive this?  They stood at the cliff, they fell together in some poetic, romantic bullshit.  A brine covered, broken pair of glasses – his glasses, they must have been in his pocket that night – washed ashore accompanied by the speculation that Will Graham at least drowned or was buffeted too hard against the cliffs or any other number of watery deaths.  The endless question: Is Hannibal the Cannibal alive, or did the sea claim its demon?

            Breathing hard, Will slams the laptop closed.  His eyes jerk to the screen, and the same story is there, the news breaking worldwide it would seem.  He looks wildly at the images, the newscasters, the relief in their eyes.  Jack’s name comes up, and suddenly he’s on screen, a clip from an interview that must have already happened.

            “Yes, we believe that Lecter and Graham both fell off the cliff.  Given the drop, and with the waves buffeting the cliff, it can be assumed that both likely died in the fall.”

            The ringing is back in Will’s ears.  His mind wildly thinks about Molly and Walter and all his dogs, his soft and pleasant and _safe_ home with them.  What are they thinking now, with him dead?  What rage and sorrow fills them?

            “Will.”

            He jumps in his own skin.  Lecter is looking at him, something in his dark eyes frightening in its excitement.  Will can hardly stand to look at him.

            “They think we’re dead, Will.  Do you know what that means?”

            “They won’t stop looking until they find a body,” he blurts out.  “We still have to be careful.”

            “Of course.  But in time, when they don’t find anything, they’ll believe we’re sunk at the bottom of the ocean, eaten by sharks and fish or what have you.  They’ll look less and less, and we’ll be free.  Freedom, Will.”

            Will looked away, opening his laptop again.  He couldn’t think about it, not yet.  The ideas were slamming around in his brain, bouncing off the walls, building into horrible pressure.  He needed more information, more facts; fuck Freddie Lounds, she never could be trusted.

            He opened the first article from a reputable outlet that he recognized.  He stared at the article a moment before diving in.

            The facts were simple.  It had taken about a month for Hannibal’s cliffside home to finally be located.  The FBI had stormed the grounds, found Dolarhyde’s body tucked away in a large freezer, chest ripped open raggedly and heart torn out.  A savage act, a final triumph.  The forensic team hadn’t taken long to figure out that they had fallen off the cliff, but after that, the official story and the truth begin to split.

            Will’s abandoned and shattered glasses seem too convenient a hint.  Did Lecter leave them, a way to lead the presumption of their death?  Even without it, Will can hardly believe they _are_ alive.  They lost so much blood – and the forensic people know that, too – and they surely lost more while in the water.  Their being alive is a miraculous stretch.  Maybe it’s no wonder they’re believed dead.

            Satisfied, Will turns his focus inward.  Has it really been a month?  The first stretch of their time together is such a fog in Will’s mind, a constant sea of painkillers.  Argentina has been home only one week.  Will can estimate, at the least, that it would have taken a couple weeks for them both to recover, maybe longer.  Yes, nearly a month of their reunion, only a month into this new evolution of their bond.  Already Will feels different, as if somehow he’s managed to change so early.  It does not bode well.

            The television suddenly turns off.  Will turns his head, looking at Lecter.  The man seems pleased, though it doesn’t surprise Will much.  He has to hand it to him, the scene was well crafted.  Of course, if Will was still one of the good guys, he’d be there insisting Hannibal wasn’t dead, that it was all a ruse to make them stop looking.

            Will isn’t one of the good guys anymore.  Hannibal is likely thankful of that.

            “We’ll lay low a few more days,” Lecter said.  His tone was thoughtful; clearly he was contemplating their situation as he spoke.  “We must also begin using our new identities.  Within our home, our names are safe, but we cannot use them outside.  Do you remember yours?”

            Will nodded once.  Outside of these walls, his name is Victor Smith; a bland American name, certainly.  He was a university librarian primarily, but he’d had a few other occupations on the side, tinkering in mechanics and other handy things.  He moved to Argentina with his good friend, Dr. Gabriel Dandridge, who studied various languages and taught about them; Will didn’t understand any of it, either as himself or his new identity.  At least, that was what they _had_ done.  They had left the United States for new opportunities, though neither had a job yet.

            Hannibal could get work anywhere, Will had no doubt.  The man was a genius, and he seemed to be educated in just about every conceivable thing on earth.  Will was smart himself; how else could he survive so long in this man’s company?  But he wasn’t up to snuff, in his own opinion, of being a librarian at some campus.  At a local library, however, he could surely manage, and would maybe even enjoy it.  It would be much quieter than his days with the FBI certainly.

            Whether or not Hannibal would want to work, Will did.  He couldn’t stand sitting around endlessly with nothing to do.  It would drive him mad, surely.  But that was a worry for another time.  Lecter was right; they needed to hide for a bit longer, until everything was assured to settle down.  Until then, they could begin establishing a new life, as long as they were careful.

            They had drowned their way to freedom.  All they had to do now was swim, silent, deep under the surface.


	8. Needed

Around the house, Lecter begins to insist that they speak in Spanish as much as possible.  Will doesn’t complain; he needs the practice, and within a week, he has to admit that it’s helped a lot.  He’s much better now.  Still not fluent, but growing closer every day.  He can navigate them around town now, able to read the signs and comprehend them and ask for directions when the signs cannot help.

            Lecter is also explaining things in the kitchen to him.  Will stands just off to the side, more often than not with a glass of something that he sips at, watching the man cook.  Lecter moves with a brisk efficiency that Will knows is reflected to a degree in his killing.  Though when the Chesapeake Ripper kills, there is a savagery just beneath the surface as well.  Will tries not to think about that, or how their savagery fed off each other that night on the cliff.

            Around their home, Will feels useful, for the most part, and it is a good feeling.  Steadying.  He is more than just Hannibal’s companion or friend; he is his right hand, there to hand him a certain spice or knife, to grab something in the stores, to help hang things on the wall and move furniture.  His aid is merely an utterance away.  Perhaps, in a way, his usefulness is needed.

            The thought frightens him more than he is willing to admit.

***

            “I think you’ll be ready soon.”

            Will hums softly, brows furrowing as he looks up from his laptop.  Hannibal, seated on the couch and seemingly buried in a book, does not look as if he would have spoken.  Will knows that the appearance is misleading; Lecter seems gifted at the elusive thing called multitasking.

            “Ready,” Will echoes, “for what, exactly?”

            “To go out and find a job.”

            Will frowns fully.  “A job?”

            “You’re restless,” Lecter says as he turns a page.  “You jitter, pace, stare at things for too long.  You need something to occupy yourself beyond shuffling about here.  Your Spanish should be as good as fluent in another week, two at most.”

            “You think it’s safe to go out in public like that?”

            “For you, yes.”  Lecter looks up from his book finally, though it is only a tilt of his head to allow his dark eyes to turn upon Will.  They glitter with a strange sort of humor that matches the slight curve of his lips.  “They think you’re dead.  And they don’t know that your hands partook in destroying the Dragon.  You are innocent, for the most part, in their eyes.”

            “Innocent,” Will echoes.  He can hear the disdain in his own voice, the way it adds a bitterness.  “I don’t think that word applies, Dr. Lecter.”

            His mouth quirks fully.  “No, it does not.  But the Bureau does not know that, no?  They think you’re still the lost boy tangled up in my web.  Only Jack would know better, but even he believes you dead.  And that he surely puts on his own shoulders.”

            Will falls silent, eyes dropping back towards the glowing screen.  “Do you think about them?  Margot and Alana, Bedelia, Jack?”

            He hears Lecter’s sigh, then the sound of him resettling.  In the silence, the faint sound of his book closing seems loud.

            “Do you think of them?” Lecter echoes.  “Do you think of your coworkers?  Of Molly?  Your dogs?”

            Will can’t stop the smile that comes to him.  “Of course I think about the dogs.”

            Another sigh from Hannibal, this one just this side of irritated.  “You’re using humor to deflect the question.”

            Will grins this time, flicking a brief glance to the man.  “That’s very astute of you, Hannibal.”

            Lecter smiles – a genuine expression that crinkles his eyes a bit.  Will hates that it makes _something_ in his chest move in a foreign way.

            “You know my answer just as well as I know yours,” Hannibal says, back to business.  “I think of them now and then.  I wonder what they are doing, if they believe the lie we painted them, if in their hearts they know the truth.  If they fear in the dark.”

            “Molly wouldn’t fear,” Will says.  His voice is quiet in the emptiness.  “She knows better.  She never did anything to you, and she was good to me.”

            Lecter hums softly, his gaze turning forward.  “Nothing to fear, then.  But the others.  They have reason to fear, wouldn’t you say?”

            “Yes,” Will replies; there’s no hesitation.  “They crossed the devil and he’ll come and take his pound of flesh before it’s through.”  Will looks up, just in time to see a savage, pleased glint in Hannibal’s eye.

            “The Devil, am I?  And what does that make you, Will?  A demon?  Or are you an angel fallen from Heaven and God?”

            Will wants to berate him, say that it’s only a single metaphor and doesn’t need to be stretched out to encompass him as well.  But if he is walking with the Devil, perhaps it does include him as well.  And what does that make him?  What is his place in the larger scheme?

            “That depends,” he finally replies, head tipping back as he ponders the question.  “Am I something disposable, or am I something you need?”

            Silence.  It stretches on and on.  Will feels it grow heavy against his skin, forcing him to look at Lecter.

            The man sits still, silent, staring at him.  His expression is thoroughly closed, locked as well.  Will hates how hard he is to read suddenly; he had grown used to familiarity again, to the ability to simply glance at him and know what his companion was feeling and doing.  Here, Hannibal is closed to him.

            _Must’ve been a bigger question than I thought if he’s taking this damn long_.

            Lecter looks away abruptly, picking up his book and opening it again..  Will straightens in response, as if his movements pull some string between them that makes him respond.

            “You are not disposable, Will.  You should know that by now.”

            Lecter falls silent after, the sort of silence that states the conversation is over.  Will complies, though he is left with the words echoing and rattling in his head.  Not disposable.  But that does not mean necessary.  Will is convenient for now, something Lecter wants.  A toy perhaps?  Is he simply like Abigail?  Something that Hannibal can use and twist to use for his plans?  Is Will just a piece on the board, a single aspect of a larger game he cannot see from his vantage point?

            Or is Will something that Hannibal needs?  Can he bear the solitude that being without Will would entail?

            The thought horrifies Will even as he chases after it.

            Hannibal has never been entirely alone, at least not as far as Will has seen.  Lecter had Chiyoh, a secret companion at his childhood home, a known presence.  Abigail in the open at first, then hidden away.  He had Will as his friend, briefly, before the façade crashed down.  Professional companionship in Alana, confidence in Bedelia, patients that listened to him.  When he fled the states, he did not take Will as they had spoken of in that great ruse; he took Bedelia, and why do that?

            Hannibal needs Will.  He doesn’t know why, but he knows he is needed.

            This is not the way he wants to be needed.


End file.
